Stuffing and Giving the Bird

I thought I'd share my grandmother's delicious Rum Raisin Stuffing recipe with my readers.
Gather up these ingredients: assorted bread crumbs, parsley, sage and thyme, salt and pepper. Three eggs, two onions and two green bell peppers, one box raisins, one pint dark rum.

Open the rum, take good sip for quality assurance. Soak the raisins in straight rum for at least four hours.
While the raisins are soaking, crumble up all the uncrumbled bread bits, fluff in a tablespoon of dried parsley, teaspoon of sage and a teaspoon of thyme. Fluff around in bowl, take a pinch to taste. Add spices until crumb mixture tastes flavorful and balanced. Then add salt and pepper to taste. If you have trouble finding the flavor balance, sip a jigger of the rum to clear your palate. Let your mouth rest, then try the crumb mixture again. Wait readers - hold on - my phone is ringing.

"Hi Cathy......no, she's bringing the pies, you're supposed to bring the mashed potatoes. Yup.... listen, I gotta go, I'm doing a dressing recipes for Dan's."

Where was I.....oh yes, sip a jigger of rum.
Now let's chop something and saute the onions and bell peppers. Chop into dime sized pieces. Get your fry pan hot and toss them in. While they get going, check how the raisins are doing. Eat a teaspoon of raisins. We want to soak them in the rum until they're as fat a grapes again. Stir the um.... stir the onions and peppers. Watch for the onions to carmelize, which means turn light brown. Pardon me, the phone again.

"Hi Cath.....sure we can fit your sister in. Okay, and her husband too. What? Four kids? I don't think I have the room. I thought there was just going to be five of us, I didn't buy a huge turkey. .....I know, but that six extra people. I don't have a kids table set up.....but I don't want them to eat with us, that's why I didn't invite anyone with kids in the first place. Kids wreck a meal. You're up and down constantly and you never get to eat in peace......I'm sure you'll help, but I just saying, four kids....you and she will have to take care of them, I don't want to..... alright, goodbye."

Hello readers, well, the onions and peppers burned, so I'll start over on them. I'm pouring out a full jigger of rum and checking it for taste and texture while I chop something.....and okay here we go, carmelizing the onions and WHOAAAAAAA.....putting out the flames..... readers, don't spill any of the rum into the saute pan. However, I can say, the onions have a lovely carmel color now. And as soon as the smell of my cinged hair clears away, this will smell wonderful. And now add the sauteed onions and peckers to the bread crumb mixture, fold in slowly so you don't make a big mess. Hold on..... I'm sorry readers.....

"Hello.......Cathy, can you call me back in an hour? I'm trying to make the stuffing. I'll never get this bird in.....what? No! No lasagna instead of mashed potatoes, this is a Thanksgiving dinner! I don't care if the kids won't eat mashed potatoes, get them Happy Meals on the way over......nut allergies? I don't know what has touched nuts in my kitchen or not.....I use nuts in a lot of dishes, my house is not a nut free zone! Then tell her to bring over whatever her child can eat and keep it separate from the rest of the foods for him......I'm not yelling! I want a peaceful, calm Thanksgiving dinner! I'm hanging up now. I'll see you at 4....."

I am truly sorry readers. I know you are all waiting. Just let me steady my nerves a bit. Pausing to take a zanex and let's just wash it down with a swallow of rum to to activate it a little sooner for me. I'm trying to manage my anxiety. I have this friend who is fouling up my plans. I had such a good plan...

Back to the recipe, we're almost done. Add the sauteed crap to the crumbs and stir, and now add the eggs......okay, I was a little premature on the eggs.... pick out the shells.....nut allergy, she should leave the kid at home....and to put us in a holiday mood, I'll have a few sips of rum which is getting smoother with each sip. Now, add the raisins and a whole cup of rum. And mix the mixture until, until, it looks like something that is mixed.

And now get the bird out of the fridge and throw him in the sink. Reach in the chest and pull out that bloody paper bag of turkey organs and give it to your cat. Next, flip the bird and stick you hand up it's....other side and yank out whatever the hell Butterball has jammed in that end along with that obscene turkey neck. Rinse the bird....damn.... not with soap....I was on automatic pilot there for a minute.....rinse off these suds. Well, it's a clean bird now.

Get the bowl with the stuff and stuff that mother and throw it in the oven.
Now, take the bird back out and, we should have done this earlier, find a pan. Use the biggest pan you have and sit the bird up if he doesn't fit laying down. Use wire to stabilize it into a sitting Buddha position and you can tell your guests that it's a nut free bird and all nut free birds are cooked sitting up. Of course, as the bird cooks, the stuffing will expand out of the bird's bottom and this may not be an optimal visual for the table, so have some sprigs of parsley ready to throw between it's legs before you put it on the table. Maybe put a little party hat on the top of the neck too...why the hell not? Excuse me readers, it's probably my friend phone, Cathy calling.

"WHAT?......no, no, no, nobody's making fresh guacamole in my kitchen!.....No, there's no taco chips and guacamole at Thanksgiving! .....if they're health nuts, tell them to make that green mush at home and bring it with them. I don't like people in my kitchen.....it IS a big deal....if they don't like the traditional foods, why are they bothering with Thanksgiving?...Okay... you know what, just do what you want. Tell her I have nuts all over the kitchen and everything in my kitchen has been touched by nuts.....I'm hanging up now...."

Okay readers, that's the last interruption, I promise. Put the oven on 350 and put in the bird, with or without the pan, I don't care. Drink one cup of rum. Crush any remaining zanex you have and put it into a container of milk that may be used for children later in the day. The zanex in their milk will enhance your ability to enjoy your meal.

Happy Thanksgiving!

You Say Tomato, I Say Potato

Right now, across the country, people are deciding whose house to go to for Thanksgiving, or whether or not they will host the dinner, or whether or not they will just go to a restaurant.

All the grandmothers want all their children and grandchildren to come to their house and they all want the Norman Rockwell family portrait of the perfect Thanksgiving dinner. Everyone in the picture looks happy and grateful. All the children are sitting nicely. My mother still wants this perfect Thanksgiving. But, if your family is like mine, there are family members who won't talk to other family members, and there's no way our kids would sit calmly at a table, and there's not a single bottle of wine or any of it's affiliates anywhere in the Norman Rockwell picture, I checked it twice. Small pockets of family groups within the family will group together and have Thanksgiving at different homes. But, if by some stroke of luck, your whole family does gather around one table, here's my advice for safe topics of conversation and topics to avoid.

Topics to Avoid
On the basis that men usually compete with each other and women usually try to avoid conflict in family gatherings, I suggest avoiding the following topics:
The route you took to drive there; every man seems to know a shortcut that someone else doesn't know and little competitions break out over the fastest and shortest way to get there. It is the most meaningless conversation I have ever heard, but men will actually spend time trying to "one-up" each other on who got there by the smartest route.
Politics, religion, and I am adding sports as a sub-catagory of religion. Any conversation on politics goes south immediately and men don't discuss religion because it includes self reflection and/or (perish the thought) self examination, so avoid politics and religion. Sports cannot be discussed because the devotion and loyalty levels are too high and require verbal fighting over the table which can result in peas being thrown and maybe a potato. So, no sports.
Whose child is smarter; The answer is always that your children are the smartest and the others are just some DNA slop that got into the gene pool when the lifeguard wasn't looking. So, no one can discuss their children.
Who had the worst childhood; sibling rivalry never dies. The "Mom loves you more" crap never stops. If you're a parent and you are accused of loving one child more than the other, as I was one day, I suggest using the answer I gave to this delicate and sensitive accusation. My response was, "Shut up! I can't stand either one of you! You're both driving me nuts!" The accusatory child shut up and the topic has never been raised since. While children are busy looking for ways to blame you for everything wrong with them, they never factor in your sacrifices and forfeiture of money, time and goals. I always say, there are no perfect parents because there are no perfect children, and they can only blame me for their problems if I am credited with all their accomplishments, it's an all or nothing deal...the little creeps.
Thanksgiving recipes; women like to discuss and share recipe ideas, but the men always jump in and either 1. they know a better recipe for the item -which they have never cooked themselves, or 2. their mother made it better than you. So, recipes, although they seem safe, might be okay for about ten minutes of conversation, but then you have to move on.
Boats, dock fees, condition of moorings; if you live on the Island, don't bring up these topics around the Thanksgiving table. Boats are like children, they take and take, but we love them and will give them anything they want, until we've had it and then we sell them - which is alright if you sell to a stranger, but if you sell to relative, you will never hear the end of how you took advantage of them and the accusations will start approximately three minutes after some innocent person asks, "So, Bob, how are you and Susan liking your new boat?"
Can't talk about the dead, that's bad luck, unless it's to miss them or laud them.
Can't talk about about money, no one has enough, ever, period.

So what topics are safe to talk about?

Family members who are alive, but not present at that table are fair game. Everyone can spew verbal arrows and shards of glass in complete safety and no fights will break out until someone at the table tells the non-present family member what you said about them. But who cares - you're not talking to them anyway, that's why they weren't invited to your dinner.

Tomatoes. After long and careful thought I have concluded that tomatoes are the perfect Thanksgiving topic. No one has anything against them. Everyone likes them and can name their favorite kind. There's very little controversy over tomatoes. Can't say that about other veggies. Zucchini conversations inevitably lead to body part comparisons. Red vs. white potatoes can be debated. Bell peppers can be blamed for indigestion. Onions are way too controversial and someone with Irritable Bowel Syndrome is always present with a repulsive "Well, you know what happens to me if I eat onions" story. So, I have concluded that tomatoes are the only truly safe topic for discussion at any Thanksgiving table. Hope that helps.

Halloween on Shelter Island

Who Do The Voo Doo That You Do So Well?

Shelter Island is one of the few places left where kids can safely Trick or Treat and not worry about getting razor blades in their apples. However, is it Shelter Island, and other unusual things can appear in a kid’s Treat bag.

“How’d you do, son?” Jean asked her ten year old, Tommy.
“Great Mom. I got a ton of candy, some money, and some other good stuff.”
“I don’t see any fruit in the bag, didn’t anyone give you anything healthy?”
“Yea, I had some apples and stuff and some crappy granola bars.”
“Some healthy snacks? That’s good, where are they?”
“I threw all that healthy junk in the woods for the deer. Let them eat it.”
“That’s my boy....” chimed in Tommy’s dad, Big Tom.
“Hey Dad, Mr. Billings gave me some new fishing line, still in the package, he said you’d give me a buck for it and I got a floating key fob from the liquor store and some ferry tickets.”
“Who gives ferry tickets for Trick or Treat?” asked Mom.
“People who run out of candy and don’t want their deer fences around their gardens pushed down, that’s who,” answered Tommy.
“Give me the ferry tickets, Tommy,” said his Mom.
“Not so fast Mom, what’ll you give me for six tickets?”
“Nothing. You can’t drive, hand them over.”
“I’ll give you a buck,” said Big Tom.
“Don’t encourage him!” exclaimed Mom.
“The bidding starts at five dollars,” said Tommy, feeling like a real Islander negotiating his first deal.
“I bid six!” said Big Tom.
“Tom, stop it!” said Mom. “I’ll give you seven dollars, Tommy. That’s a lot of money.”
“I’ll give you ten,’ said Big Tom.
“Sold to Dad for ten big ones!” shouted the triumphant Tommy.
“You can give him the money, but I get the tickets,” said Mom to Big Tom. She said it in a soft voice and Tommy sensed some other negotiation was about to begin.

Tommy watched as Mother looked at Father and she raised one eyebrow. Father raised both eyebrows just a little. Then Mother looked down and up again, very slowly, at Father. Now both of Father’s eyebrow shot up high on his face and he had a slight smile. Mother pointed with her chin at the ferry tickets in Father’s hand and he quietly handed them over. Tommy wondered if it might be true that women were witches and could cast spells to control men’s minds. Mother took the tickets and left the room.

“Dad! What did you do? You just paid ten bucks for those tickets and you gave them to her and you didn’t even barter for lasagna or anything? Can she do Voo Doo? Did she put a whammy on you, Dad?”
“Son,” said Big Tom, as he sat next to his boy, “I’m gonna tell you something that won’t make sense right now, but it will in the very near future. Always remember, if a woman, or girl, doesn’t want you, there’s nothing you can do to get her, but if she decides she does want you, there’s no power on earth to save you.”
“Is that like the “friends with benefits” thing that the older kids talk about?”
“No, son, that’s just for the single men. Once you chase them till they catch you, and you get married, it’s called slavery with benefits.”
“I still say she put a Voo Doo on you, a double whammy, that’s why you just handed over the ferry tickets.”
“Ferry tickets are only the beginning son. Paycheck, keys, control of your life, it all goes over to them once they put the whammy on you.”
“Not me Dad, girls are gross, especially Kathy next door. I hate her.”
“I understand Tommy. You enjoy your candy. I’ll go check on Mommy in the shower. I don’t want her to slip and fall.”
“Okay, Dad, but I still say you got took.”

The Answer My Friend, is Blowing Out Your End...

Last week, in Dan’s Papers (Bridgehampton, NY) Dan wrote an article called, The Maple Leaf Mini-Cooper People Have All Been Fired. In the article, he wrote, “The East Hampton Town Board met ... to consider what to do about the leaves that fall from the trees in October. .....The leaf pickup program, ... consists of town trucks and highway department employees going around picking up bags of leaves that citizens place by the side of the road. They take them to the dump. The cost of this ... effort in effect would be $700,000. The town could save that money if they canceled the program..... Of course, citizens themselves could take bagged leaves to the dump. ...During the discussion, the new Supervisor pointed out that the elaborate leaf counting program, put into place by his predecessor, had been canceled. For several years, as everybody knows, hundreds of uniformed "leaf counters" with red maple leaf insignias sewn on their shirts, have been going out in special town-owned Mini Coopers with hand held calculators to get the total of all the leaves on all the trees in town.”

Every week Dan puts in one article that is untrue and completely nuts and I’m always stupid enough to get roped in, but not this time buster! There’s just no way that Green-thinking East Hamptonites would resist schlepping their own leaves to the dumps. We have plenty of millionaires on Shelter Island who schlepp their own trash and leaves to the dumps and the East Hampton millionaires aren’t any better than ours, and if they think they are, then send them over here and we will beat them into submission. And East Hampton hired leaf counters, complete with little maple leaf insignia’s and little roller skate cars, driving around to count leaves? This is when I knew this article was bogus. Either that or East Hampton gets the prize for creating the most useless job in America. The runners up would be a job counting clouds shaped like triangles that pass over E.H. Main Street between noon and one on Tuesdays, or how many licks does it take to get to the center of a sugar free, fat free, flavor free, Tootsie Roll Pop.

However, I will agree that having a general idea of a volume of leaves can be helpful at times. On Shelter Island, we estimate leaf volume by eye. I am submitting this information to East Hampton to help them in the future, should they become serious about leaf counting. Remember, there’s no point in counting leaves while they are still on the trees because leaves travel. You get your neighbor’s leaves blown into your yard, and the person on the other side of you gets yours, and we all get some in the end.

One Bag = one tall brown paper biodegradable bag. Fits into the trunk of any car.
One SUV or Van load = six bags and four complaining children.
One small truckload = six lawn bags of leaves, one case of beer to replenish the workers.
One large truckload = ten lawn bags; or six bags, plus two helpers, and a cooler
One G-d damn big load = twenty bags in a yard. Ten will gradually be taken to the dumps, but by then, the other ten will have been rained on and will be slowly pushed back into the mulch corner. Every yard on SI has a mulch corner. You will know it by it’s big piles of wet brown leaves interspersed with fragments of torn brown biodegradable paper and a broken rake laying close by.
S--t Load of Leaves = more than twenty bags. Will take six men, three trucks, two cases of beers, 30 hot dogs and buns with condiments, 20 bags of chips, one burn barrel. It may take a dedicated crew like this all day and half the night to burn all these leaves, but they can do it. So what are the trucks for? Regardless of the amount of planning, someone will forget something and have to make a run to IGA or Fedi’s, the soberest one at the time makes the run. Throughout the evening, several more trucks with bags of leaves will appear. There’s just something about fire, beer, and the freedom to pee outdoors that draws men to a burn barrel like a moth to a flame.

If the East Hampton Leaf Counters feel displaced as workers, I’m sure the town can create a program for them to count grains of sand on the E. H. beaches. It will be important to segregate sand that does have a permit to be there from the grains of sand that do not have permits. Unauthorized sand may have migrated from one of the neighboring Hampton beaches. You don’t know where the Southampton sand has been and the first thing it’ll want to do is form a wet bar and bring it’s decadent Southampton live style with it. Tip: It’s easy to detect Southampton sand, it smells like lime and tequila. So, Sand Counters, put on your little red vests with crab insignias on, and go for it.

Viagra vs. HGTV

“Hi hunny, I got a surprise for you. I redid the bathroom today.”
“Lois, you just did that.”
“No, Brian, that was in the Spring when I decorated it for summer. I redid it today for autumn.”
“Okay, just tell me what I can’t touch, starting with which towels.”
“I made it very easy for you this year. Don’t touch anything with an acorn or oak leaf. The guest towels have the embroidered acorns and oak leaves on them. They’re on top of the new light orange and brown towels that you can use. There’s matching acorn and oak leaf soaps in the soap dish, don’t use them either. You can use the regular soap in the dish in the drawer right next to the sink. There’s also an acorn shaped rug in front of the sink. Don’t stand on it. Stand next to it and lean over if you have to look in the mirror. There’s new potpourri on the back of the toilet, don’t throw used matches in it and set it on fire like last year.”
“Tell me dear, if I built you a second bathroom, could you designate it as a generic, user friendly zone that I could use anytime and use anything in it without fear of breaching that invisible clause in the marriage contract that says “and I swear never to touch guest towels, or anything designed for guests - even though the guests know better than to touch the guest stuff”?
“Are you serious? I’ve been begging for a second bathroom for years, why is it okay now?”
“Well, Lois my sweet, my huggy buggy bear.... I have a surprise for you too. Brace yourself.”
“Let me grab the counter, okay, I’m braced.”
“I had a special talk with the new doc today. We had the “little blue pill talk” and he gave me samples...”
“I didn’t ask you to have the “little blue pill talk” with him, our marriage is good, we don’t need to worry about anything.”
“Maybe for you, but haven’t you .....missed me?”
“Yes, um, sure, absolutely.”
“You don’t sound very happy, Lois, I thought you’d be thrilled.”
“Thrilled, that was the exact word I was looking for, thrilled. Yes, I am thrilled, can’t wait to be more thrilled in fact.”
“And the thrill can last for up to four hours.”
“I’ll kill you.”
“What?”
“I said, will you? I mean, four hours, geez.... that’s like a whole afternoon. A contractor could frame out a new bathroom in an afternoon. So how many pills did you get?”
“Six. I can take them as long as I don’t develop high blood pressure.”
“I see. Well Brian, you call a contractor while I make dinner and later tonight we’ll give those blue pills a test run.”
“Wait a minute, I didn’t say it was definite about a new bathroom.”
“But why wait? Let’s live on the edge for once, and spend some money on something we’ve always wanted, a second bathroom. And I promise never to decorate it. Just you, four walls and a shelf for newspapers. We’ll paint it blue to match the little pill.”
“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to get an estimate. What are you making for dinner?”
“Lasagna with extra cheese and extra sausage, asparagus with hollandaise sauce, and cheesecake for dessert.”
“Perfect! Just don’t give me anything that will raise my blood pressure.”
“Of course not. I’ll just record Burn Notice and all my HGTV shows tonight.”
“There you go....sex trumps HGTV any day.”
“I’ll warm you up some fried chicken while you wait for dinner, hunny.”

It’s a Good Thing to Know Jack

http://www.pumpkinnook.com/facts/jack.htm “The Irish brought the tradition of the Jack O'Lantern to America. ...The Jack O'Lantern legend goes back hundreds of years in Irish History. As the story goes, Stingy Jack was a miserable, old drunk who liked to play tricks on everyone: ... even the Devil himself. .... Stingy Jack made the Devil promise him not to take his soul when he died. Once the devil promised not to take his soul, Stingy Jack removed the crosses (that held him in the tree- sic) and let the Devil down.
Many years later, when Jack finally died, ... He was not allowed to enter heaven. ...and ... The Devil ...would not allow him to enter Hell. Now Jack was scared and had nowhere to go but to wander about forever in the darkness between heaven and hell. He asked the Devil how he could leave as there was no light. The Devil tossed him an ember from the flames of Hell to help him light his way. Jack placed the ember in a hollowed out Turnip... For that day onward, Stingy Jack roamed the earth without a resting place, lighting his way as he went with his "Jack O'Lantern".
On all Hallow's eve, the Irish hollowed out Turnips, rutabagas, gourds, potatoes and beets. They placed a light in them to ward off evil spirits and keep Stingy Jack away. These were the original Jack O'Lanterns. In the 1800's a couple of waves of Irish immigrants came to America. The Irish immigrants quickly discovered that Pumpkins were bigger and easier to carve out. So they used pumpkins for Jack O'Lanterns.”

That’s the official story, but I know my tribe, and I just wonder how this jack o’lantern idea really started.

Sometime in the 1800’s, in October, on a cold night in Ireland:

“Wife throwed you out again, Paddy?”
“Aye, she did, Brady. I seed your campfire from the road, you won’t be mindin’ if I stay here tonight will ya?”
“Stay as long as you like. The big pumpkins here are good for sitting. I hollowed out one to keep me pail of beer cold.”
“Where’d you get beer?”
“Seamus Tooley has a shanty half mile that way. He makes home brew. He’ll sell you a pint for a copper.”
“Ach, the night’s as black as coal, I’d never find me way there or back.”
“True, and you can’t carry a torch, Seamus will take you for a thief and club you before you get within twenty feet of his beer.”
“How could I let him know a friendly face approaches, from far off you know, so as not to alarm him?”
“You could call out as you approach, but with the wind blowin’ so, it’s unlikely you’ll be heard.”
“Well now, maybe I could make a friendly face to precede me.... look at this little gourd. I could carve it out, carve a face in the side and maybe scoop out a little basin in the bottom to put in some oil in and he’d see a smiling face from afar. What do you think, Brady?”
“It’ll never work, Paddy. You don’t look anything like that gourd.”
“Well I’m not carvin’ a bust you fool, just a likeness, an image. I just want a pint.”
“Use a small pumpkin instead. It’s rounder and looks more like your ugly mug.”
“It’s a kind hearted man ye are, Brady.”
“Soft in the heart, aye, it’s always been me downfall.”

An hour later...
“I’m off, Brady. Wish me luck.”

An hour after that, Brady peers into the darkness...
“Mother of ....Paddy! Is that you?”
“Tis so! You can see me pumpkin lantern from this far out?”
“Aye! Did ye get yer pint?”
“I did indeed. And look over there.....see? There’s two more pumpkin lanterns heading to Seamus’s. That’s Poreg and Michael. I near scared them to death with me lit pumpkin lookin’ like it’s floating through the air on it’s own as I went past their shack. They’re heading for beer too.”
“Bless me, Paddy, it’s a brilliant man you are. You’ve found a way for a man to travel in the dark without being mistook for a robber.”
“I’m naming me pumpkin helper here, Jack, Jack O’Lantern.”
“It’ll help me too, as long as I see Jack, I’ll know it’s a friend.”
“They say “Necessity is the mother of invention”, but me, Brady, I think it’s beer. Beer is the mother of invention.”

Greenport Maritime Festival

“I’m exhausted, John, but every piece of brass on the boat is shining. The new boat cushions look terrific and the new canvas will be here in time for the Maritime Celebration on the 25th. I love having a classic boat, but geez, the work....what are you wearing? I threw that out in Spring.”
“No, you TRIED to throw it out in Spring, Louise.”
“You pulled that out of the burn barrel! John, please.... you’ve had that shirt since you were 22. You’re 47 now, it pulls everywhere and it’s too short. Your hairy stomach shows.”
“It fits fine! It’s my lucky shirt. I caught my prize bass in this shirt. Remember that competition?”
“No, John, don’t start the bass competition story, please, I have to have time to organize Thanksgiving next month.”
“You had no right to throw out my lucky shirt, or my lucky shorts.”
“No - John- you didn’t fish out those shorts too! You can’t wear those OP short shorts hunny, I mean you really can’t.”
“I can still button them. I just skip the top button and hide it with my shirt.”
“No, my love, you can not wear those short shorts in public anymore, ever.”
“Worried about me? I’m a happily married man, I wouldn’t flirt. You don’t have to worry about somebody making a play for me in these shorts.”
“That’s truer than you know, but not for the reasons you think. John, have you ever seen the pictures of the ballroom in St. Patricks’s Cathedral in New York?”
“Can’t say I have - wait a minute.... there’s no ballroom in St Patrick’s Cathedral!”
“No dear, there isn’t. And that’s what your short shorts have in common with the Cathedral.”
“That’s low, Louise.”
“Many things are these days, John.”
“That bad? Really?”
“Remember when your Uncle George visited? Remember those green polyester shorts he loved because they were comfortable? Aunt Betty couldn’t get rid of them no matter what she did.”
“I remember, he looked like somebody put pants on a goat. Please don’t tell me I look that bad in my shorts.”
“Well, Uncle George’s shorts were at least Bermuda length, so there was no chance of anything escaping. The OP shorts are way too short. I get scarred every time you put them on.”
“I love these shorts. I’ve had them so long. It’s like giving up a friend.”
“We can frame them.”
“No, that’s stupid. We’ll bury them at sea during the festival. It’s the only proper way to dispose of boat shorts that have served so long.”
“And the shirt.”
“Shirt stays. Be happy I’m letting go of my lucky competition shorts.”
“Alright, one out of two ain’t bad. Give them to me, I’ll throw them in the duffel. John, let go of the shorts, c’mon, give them to me now. You look silly clutching them to your chest like I’m taking away a toy.”
“Please, Louise, we just need a moment.”
“Okay. Well, when you’re ready, here’s some new dockers. You’ll look nice in these for the festival.”
“They’re the wrong size. Louise. The waist says 42, I’m 36 waist. My OP’s are 36.”
“They’re made in Malaysia. The waist is 42 centimeters, it’s 36 inches in American sizes.”
“I thought so. I mean, 42 is just five points below my age.”
“And five points above your I.Q..”
“Huh?”
“I said Hy Que. They were made in Hy Que, Malaysia.”
“Yeah, well, they better get their sizes right if they want to sell over here.”

Gone With The Ferry

I will miss both Dr Marshall’s, Kathleen and Christopher, I thought they were both terrific. I shared Dr. Kathleen’s passion for the movie Gone With The Wind. She’s the only person I’ve ever met who knew the script as well as I do. Plus, we’d quiz each other on GWTW trivia throughout my medical visit. It’s not just any doc who can prepare an injection and ask, “Okay, so what was Vivian Leigh’s biggest complaint about Clark Gable?” (Answer - bad breath from his dentures). We had an ongoing debate over the PDA’s vs. DayTimers datebooks. “PDA’s hold much more info and can perform many more functions.”
My response: “Unless you drop them or spill coffee on them, then they’re dead and there’s nothing to do but go berserk and have a panic attack because you just lost all your contact info and saved notes. At least with my old skool DayTimers, I can wipe off the coffee or sea spray and continue on.”

I saw Dr Christopher more than Dr Kathleen and he was very polite and effective. I always appreciated the way he looked directly into your eyes when he spoke to you and listened to your questions. Weight has always been a big problem for me and I didn’t even mind when he used chalk lines to mark off the parts he had examined and went on to the next section.

I’m sure the new docs will be wonderful. And they will have lots of interesting stories to tell very soon. We are coming into Deer Hunting Season and somewhere, on the Island right now, there is a conversation happening that goes like this...

“Try it on Sue, it looks good, don’t it? You like pink.”
“John, a pink camouflage deer hunting outfit does not count as a birthday gift. Why did you get this?”
“The kids are gone now. All I hear is how “we should spent more quality time together”, so I thought, since I’m spending my quality time in a deer blind this weekend, you could spend yours there too. You can be in charge of the coffee.”
“Oh, joy...”
“Give it a chance. It’s really more fun than it sounds.”
“You want me to sit in a deer blind in the early morning damp cold, freezing to death in a pink camo outfit, serving coffee.”
“Not just coffee. You can make sandwiches the night before and bring an extra thermos of tomato soup.”
“Thank you, John, that is the cherry on the cake of my day.”
“But you have to be quiet. We can’t talk. We have a few basic hand signals, I’ll teach you.”
“So I have to sit in silence with hot coffee, hot tomato soup, serve sandwiches, can’t read a book because it will be too dark, can’t shoot you because I don’t know how the gun works, besides which, it may scare off the deer which will annoy the other hunters. What part of this do you think I’ll enjoy, John?”
“We’ll be together.”
“That was enough when we were young and we could think of things to do alone together...”
“I know where this is going, Sue, I know you want more romance, but we can’t have sex in the deer blind. It will shake and scare off the deer.”
“I was thinking of when we enjoyed playing Trivia Pursuit. Having sex at four in the morning in the cold woods was not on my Bucket List.”

The next day, the new doctor on Shelter Island sees his new patient, John.
“John, I just don’t understand how a thermos could do this much damage to a human skull.”
“It was the heavy one, the one filled with tomato soup.”
“Who attacked you with this thermos?”
“I fell.”
“You fell on a thermos?”
“You’re new here, Doc, it will make sense as time goes by. Soon you’ll be able to distinguish a LLBean thermos imprint from a Rubbermaid one.”

Oysters with Herpes, What next - Clamydia?

Sep 2, 2010, AP “Scientists have identified a form of herpes as the culprit in a widespread viral outbreak that has killed as many as 8 billion French oysters in recent weeks. ... the discovery that 40% to 100% of oysters aged 12 and 18 months being raised in France's Atlantic cultivation beds had died. The reason, officials at the French Institute for Research Into Use of the Sea (Ifremer) say, is Oyster Herpes Virus type 1 (OsHV-1). “

Somewhere in a clam bed off the American Atlantic coast....

John: “Benny! Did you hear? The French Oysters have herpes. Didn’t we warn them? Didn’t we send that memo by the Pike Express - not to bed down in that damn Avian water? We told ‘em, you gotta be in salt water for the brine to wash out bacteria.....”
Benny: “C’mon John, the French have never listened to us. They hate clams, you know that. I told you we should have had the Scallops etch it into the Conch and then send it.”
John: “How come they like Scallops and not us anyway?”
Benny: “It’s the artsy thing the French have, they can’t help themselves. They love the artistry in the scallop shells, which you have to admit, John, is really impressive. That’s why our Clam de Soleil Circus failed. You just can’t get anywhere with the French shellfish unless you can produce a pearl or have a beautiful shell.”
John: “We produce pearls, Benny.”
Benny: “Yeah, but they look like little white pebbles and all they do is crack peoples teeth. Our pearls aren’t pretty, we don’t have any of that lacquer stuff they spit on the irritant.”
John: “Nacre, Benny, they have nacre.”
Benny: “Well I don’t care if they do it nacre or not, it’s still oyster spit.”
John: “You don’t suppose that virus could spread this far do you? It’s bad enough we have to deal with clamydia, I can’t imagine trying to explain how I got herpes to Jean.”
Benny: “We’ll have to avoid chewing on anything that crossed the Atlantic and then died.”
John: “How the hell will we know that?”
Benny: “We can start by avoiding anything wearing a beret or that smells like white wine, butter or garlic.”
John: “That’s a good start. When’s our next meeting with the scallops? We gotta tell them too, and the conchs.”
Benny: “The next meeting is the 15th, under the bridge by Jack’s Marina, second pole from the end. I figure if we start pumping our foot tomorrow we should make it there with time to spare.”
John: “Oh yeah, let’s get there ahead of the crowd this time before all the chum and gasoline are gone. Love that gasoline buzz....and the chum there is so good.”
Benny: “That’s where the humans got the expression, “Happy as a clam”, nothing happier than a clam nestled in fish guts with that trace of gasoline wafting through the water.”
John: “We only have one natural enemy here, those damn clammers. But the season is ending and soon the water will be too cold for those two legged monsters.”
Benny: “It would serve them right if we got herpes and gave it to them....I can just hear them now, “Honey, I swear, I wasn’t with nobody. I was at Bob’s eating clams on the half shell and barbecue. Call him, he’ll tell you”. “
John: “Ah, yes, in the words of Shellock Haddock, “Revenge is a dish that is best served iced on the half shell.....”

Next to Lovin', I Like Fightin'

Last week in Dan's Papers, in his article, Temper’s Flare, Dan Rattiner wrote, “three fights that broke out in the Hamptons last week requiring police intervention. They seem to have involved the well-to-do as well as the not so well-to-do, and they seem to have taken place at all sorts of locations in the Hamptons-in Westhampton Beach, in East Hampton and on the Sunrise Highway at the East Quogue Exit. No place is safe. This has been an extraordinary week.”

The Hamptons had three fights in a week? If that’s too much for you, you’d better not come to Shelter Island, we can do three fights before noon.

We have fights organized into the following categories:

Work Fights: Almost always over money or timelines. These fights can be quite entertaining here where we have construction going on everywhere all the time. If you drive by and notice a room sawed away from the main house, as evidenced by the fact that you can see the wallpaper inside, there was a fight there, and the workman had the last word. If you drive by and see carpentry tools on the lawn beneath a broken window, the homeowner had the last word. If you see tools in the driveway that have obviously been run over, the homeowner not only had the last word, he literally drove it home.

Follow-Up Fights: For unfinished business of all sorts. For instance, the carpenter whose tools got run over in the previous paragraph will be at The Dory that evening plotting his revenge. If the homeowner leaves him alone, he’ll just get drunk and sleep it off. But if the homeowner stops at The Dory ostensibly for a drink, but in fact, to add insult to injury if he can, count on a follow-up fight.

Passive Aggressive Fights: I hate these types, but people engage in them all the time. If a woman is mad at a man, she should have the courage to take a hammer and beat the remote in front of him, rather than hide it so deep in the couch it would take an MRI Scan to find it, like I do. And if a man is angry with a woman, he should have the courage to leave a polite note on the table and stay at a motel off-island for 24 hours, rather than let the air out of her tires. Now that might appear imbalanced to the reader, but women are much better at passive aggressive anger than men. It’s really best for men to capitulate than fight back directly. We are born knowing ways to make you suffer that are so exquisitely devious they nearly qualify as an art form.

Fights at Family Gatherings: I don’t know much about these, they are normal interactions to me, we still call fights donnybrooks in my group. The family comes, we drink, we fight, we sing, the police come, we fight over who could have called them, then we drink and go home. Given a choice, Irish Americans will live close to each other, that way we never have to worry about normal neighbors calling the police, we just have to worry about how many neighbors will be crashing the hooley (party). Italian American party’s I’ve been to have some good fighting. But they seldom break any tables or chairs like we do. Plus their food is the best. I highly recommend living next to Italian Americans because you’ll never be fed better than at an Italian gathering.

Lover’s Quarrels: On Shelter Island, these can be a lot of fun because there’s no where to run to and any one can find where you hide. And most people on SI have been with other Islanders before the one they are with now, so when you listen to the really good fights on the front lawns, you can glean all kinds of fascinating secrets of the Island. If there’s a Lovers Quarrel on, be polite and just park your car close enough to hear, but not be seen, you don’t want to interrupt them. And NEVER shout your opinion from your car. If you have to give your opinion, get out of the car, walk over and join the fight. Protocol should be observed at all times. You wouldn’t want anyone to think you were uncivilized, or worse, un-Islandized.

To Tree, Or Not To Tree...

There are fluctuations in the space-time continuum all around us, but we never really notice. Here it is, the last week of August, to adults, just an ordinary set of seven days, but to anyone still attending school, the last week of August gets compressed into what feels like two days, and like the last of the summer wine, gets sucked into the vortex of Labor Day and school begins ten minutes after Labor Day.

Adults love Autumn because the cool weather is coming and the wonderful smells of crisp air with a hint of winter. The Maple trees on Shelter Island get the memo from the off island trees on when to start turning their colors. All except for this one Maple way up on Manhasset Road.

Every year, this one Maple, I think he’s a ‘special’ deciduous Maple, seems to jump the gun and starts a little sooner than the rest. It’s probably some kind of Maple anxiety disorder, it can’t be that easy to know you’ll be losing all your leaves and spending the winter naked. Maybe he gets worried he’s fall behind the official fall schedule so he start a little early. I feel bad for him. Right now, he’s got two leaves turning red. He’s off the road a bit and I think is trying to hide his premature coloration by shifting some of his green leaves over the top of the red ones, but it’s clear he has flicked his Auto-Autumn switch on and will be ahead of the others from now on. Of course, it could just be my imagination.

“Look Pete, Edgar’s doing it again this year! I thought you talked to him.”
“Geez, Frank, I can’t believe him! He knows he didn’t win the First Colors pool this year, he doesn’t get to show the first colors on the Island! Sammy won the pool. He bought sixteen of the Monty the Big Oak’s branches and the first bird’s nest to fall out of the tree was on the first branch he bought, he didn’t even need to bet on the other fifteen. He is going to be so pissed.”
“Well, maybe he doesn’t know yet. We’ll just keep our conversations light and breezy and maybe Sammy won’t find out. Poor schmo, he’s been playing the pool for years, this was the first time he won and now that arrogant ...”
“No chance of him not finding out, Frank. You know who’s behind you - that big Poplar, Peggy - once she gets wind of this, it’ll be all over the Island in no time. I don’t think the Poplars around here have anything better to do than gossip. There are no secrets on Shelter Island.”
“Why did he do it? It’s Maple suicide. Wait till the first big storm hits, I’m hurling my second biggest branch right his way.”
“You and me both, Frank. Joe and Tommy are on the other side of him and I know Tommy, believe me, he’s got Edgar in his sites. You know about Tommy, right? Tommy the Biker Beater?”
“Oh yeah, I think I heard something about that...is it true?”
“Yep. Some biker in a full leathers pulled over to relieve himself on Tommy and Tommy cracked off a branch right over his head, I could hear it crack from my spot.”
“Did he hit the guy?”
“No, the guy jumped out of the way, but Tommy got his bike. He had to push his Harley along the side of the road. It was sweet. I never heard Oaks laugh before, they don’t talk much, really keep to themselves, but they have a wicked sense of humor. They kept shooting little twigs in the guys face the whole way down the road.”
“Guess the Oak was on him....”
“Ouch! Oh, man, that’s sad....”
“Well, at least, after we wipe out Edgar this year, he won’t be around to flirt with Julie in the Spring.”
“Julie? He flirts with Julie? My Mimosa?”
“Oh, hey, Frank, man, I didn’t know. It’s just what I heard.”
“Edgar will be roots up by December.....”

I Love My Grandkid, but Hate Babysitting!

Reason #47 Why Tigers Eat Their Young

Now that I am watching a toddler on a regular basis, I have spotted a missed opportunity for The Dory, our local watering hole. The Dory has a pond in back of it and in the winter they float a little raft with a Christmas Tree out on the pond to everyone’s delight. Eating lunch at The Dory with a toddler is impossible unless you have duct taped the little darling to the chair. I began to wonder, what if The Dory furnished floating playpens? You could have lunch with another adult, anchor the kid out about thirty feet; close enough to monitor them, but not so close that they could swim in. Yep, an opportunity missed.

“Mom, how come you bought Daiquiri Mix and liquor? You don’t drink,” asked my daughter.
“I thought it might be better than using Xanex.”
“But you’re over fif.......”
“DON’T SAY IT! Don’t you dare say that “f” word!”
“Is it the baby? Is she too much for you?”
“What? That precious child?”
“Yes, Mom, that precious child. The one who throws your shoes in the toilet, snaps your glasses apart, crayons your TV screen, throws raw eggs on the floor, constantly strips off her clothes and diaper, runs from you and fights you when you try to catch her and get a diaper on her, pulls down curtains, throws the remote across the room, shoves jelly toast in the VCR slot, empties your handbag, plays with your car keys and loses them, insists on answering the phone and won’t let you have a turn to talk, pours cups of water on you when you bathe her, sticks her fingers in your lipstick, won’t eat anything you fix her, unless it’s on your plate, then she wants it all, yells in the background whenever I call you to see how things are, figures out cabinet locks and empties cabinets, colors your walls, floors, and windows with her Crayola’s, tears pages out of your books, colors in your magazines, screams on the other side of the bathroom door the whole time you’re in the can, flips the outdoor light switch on and off whenever its not blocked by an object she can’t move or pull down. Is it the hours of watching Sesame Street reruns on TiVO, or the way she uses all furniture as a jungle gym and insists on climbing up over the arms of everything instead of just sitting down normally, or the hours of watching The Princess and the Frog movie, or the hours of coloring on paper with her, or worrying that when she sticks the crayons in her ears that you won’t be able to get them out, is it the way she can tantrum for twenty minutes straight without drawing a breath, or the way she empties the dryer when you’re in the bathroom and throws the clothes all over, or the way she grabs for your coffee cup and fights you for it and the hot coffee spills all over you, or the way she kicks the wall for nearly an hourly when you put her to bed? Am I getting close?”
“She’s just an active, normal two year old. I can handle her.”
“Not if you’re downing dacqueri’s, Mom.”
“Sweetheart, you misunderstand. The dacqueri’s are for her..... the spawn of Satan.”
“You can’t give a baby liquor!”
“Not more than three drinks a day, I promise.”
“I know you’re just joking, Mom. You’re not going to turn yourself or her into a drunk.”
“I’m just thinking that the whole babysitting thing would be easier for both of us if one of us was plastered...just until she’s five and start’s school....what are you doing?”
“I think I need a drink now...”

Son of a Beach...

The recent reports in my local paper about hiring private security guards to limit access to the public areas of beaches near their homes has really alarmed me. If something like this catches on here, I’m in for it.

“What do you mean, “Wades Beach has a checkpoint?” I asked the security guard at the entrance to the parking lot. “I’ve got my beach sticker.”
“Well, we’re trying to manage the crowds better and spread people out so everyone can enjoy the beach more,” he replied.
“I’m looking at the beach now! There’s only twenty people there at best.”
“Yes, but that’s Section One, the Beach Fit section, note the svelte icon on the sign. Section Two, the Nearly Fit section, note the beer keg icon on the sign, is farther down, there’s about forty people there now.”
“So, I have to go to an assigned section now? The one with the beer keg icon?”
“No, Ms. Flynn, you are assigned to Section Three, the Won’t Fit section, see...way down there?”
“I see a sign, I can’t read the words, but I can see a walrus icon on the sign.....hey, wait a minute....”
“That’s your assigned section. Drive to the far edge of the parking lot and if you can’t walk in, we have two attendants who will roll you in.”
“But the ice cream truck stops in front of the Beach Fit section. I can’t make it that far from the time the bells sound till I get to the truck, it will be gone by then.”
“Yes, it will, won’t it,” he replied flatly with a smirk on his face.
“Have you talked to the ice cream guy about this? That’s restriction of trade. No one in Section One is going to buy anything. They’re rather die than eat, and certainly not in public!”
“The Section Two people will make it in time. The ice man will survive.”
”That’s not fair. I always get a cream sickle. It’s part of my beach day.”
“It shouldn’t be. Why don’t you just bring a bag of lettuce and carrots sticks with you from now on until you can qualify for Section Two.”

Reluctantly I drove to the end of the parking lot and was surprised when I was met by someone from Section Two, the beer keg section.
“I can make it to the ice cream truck when it comes and get you anything you want for cost plus a buck,” he said as he leaned in my window.
“Oh, that’s so nice of you. I just want a cream sickle.”
“Why not a Toasted Almond, or Chocolate Eclair?” he asked in a low, slow voice that told me some kind of negotiation was about to begin.
“Thanks, but I have my Weight Watcher points all figured out for the day. Three points for a cream sickle, that’s all I got and still have five points left for an egg whites only Denver omelet for dinner.
“If it’s points you need, it’s points I got. I’ll sell you three of my Weight Watcher points for a fiver. Then you could have a Toasted Almond and still have your omelet tonight.”
“You’d sell your Weight Watcher points?”
“Lots of us do in Section Two. Tell your walrus friends. We want everyone to get what they want.”
“You know,” I said, “Section Three is near a clam bed. I could tread a few dozen clams for you. How’d you like a peck of clams for say, a dozen points?”
“Twelve points, that’s a lot of points. You could get a delicious reuben sandwich with ten points...”
“I think I could live with that. Ten Weight Watcher points for a peck of clams? Is it a deal?”
“Done and done,” he responded.

I got out in the water fast to tread and found a friend, a fellow walrus, out there too.
“Margaret! I never saw you tread before. Did you make a deal with that guy too?”
“Yeah. I’m getting four points and six cigarettes for a half peck of clams. What are you getting?”
“Ten points for a peck. I’m gonna give four points to Joanie for helping me with a project last week.”
“That’s nice, she’s always struggling with her points.”
“Aren’t we all?”
“You’re so lucky you aren’t trying to quit smoking. I’m just glad I found a source that Joe can’t trace. He limits me to three cigarettes a day, one after each meal, you know.”
“I feel so humiliated....Section Three, a walrus woman...”
“It’s better than Section Four. There’s only two people there. The guards feed them a bucket of dead herring each and tow them off the beach at the end of the day.”

Outing Nana

My name is “Sephira-get-down!” I will be two in October. My grandmother, and yes, I said grandmother, has been hiding me away from the world, claiming she found me on her steps rather than have the world know she is a grandmother. She whines that I’ll ruin her reputation as a hot cougar. I love her, but she is so delusional. So, for her own good, I am outing her.

She takes care of me while my mother works and we have fun all day. This morning around 8 AM, while she was getting out a gallon of milk to make me a bottle, I grabbed an egg from the fridge door without her knowledge, and let to fall to the floor. A second later, she slipped in the raw egg and landed on the kitchen floor with a big flop. She made a lot of different sounds from bad words to ouchy words. The milk was doing all right spreading on the floor, but I thought it could use some help, so I swished it all around with my hands.

Nana hurt her shoulder in the fall and had to crawl through the milk to the living room to pull herself up on the couch. I hopped on her back and rode her as she crawled into the living room. She got up on the couch all right, but then we both realized that the refrigerator was still open. It was a race to get back to the kitchen, but I won, and got to hurl out a few more eggs before my Nana got back to the kitchen and closed the door. Then she decided to mop the kitchen floor. She strapped me in my highchair which is inescapable because Nana bought the special Torquemada Designs for Toddlers highchair. I had to watch her ruin all my work. By 9 AM, we were beginning over and she made me some nice scrambled eggs for me to refuse to eat and fling over the side as I laughed in her face. Finally, she freed me from the highchair.

Nana likes to color, so around 10 AM I appease her and we color. She is old and coloring appears to be at the limit of her technological skills. She makes flowers and I overlay them with an abstract interpretation of her primitive art work. She tapes our pictures to her refrigerator so she can tell my mother that we made pictures today. Both of them really overreact to this “art” because they think they’re creating self-esteem for me. Neither of them seem to comprehend that I can manipulate both of them with ease because I already have a lock of my self esteem.

As I mentioned, I’ll be two in October, and I have already mastered the art of saying ”NO!” which helps me to create healthy boundaries. I know that what is mine is mine, what is theirs is mine, if I gave it to them but want it back it’s mine, if I even think it’s mine, it’s mine. Nana is having a little trouble with observing the “No!” boundaries I’m setting with her, but her low energy doesn’t allow her to fight me for too long and I’ve already hidden her pepper spray under the couch, so she usually capitulates in a matter of minutes.

After I refuse whatever she makes me for lunch, we go to the park. It’s fenced in so she can’t get away. I try to play nice with the other children, but they really get on my nerves, trying to keep all their toys instead of handing them over without a fight. We usually leave after I’ve inflicted my second injury on someone. The 18 month old kids are such easy marks. One good shove, and just like that, you have their toy.

We get home around 3 PM and by then, I’m ready to help Nana redecorate. I like to pull all the cushions off the chairs, clear her counters, and one good yank can take down any curtain. I take my crayons, snap a few carefully chosen colors in half and grind them into the carpet. I think it’s bold and the splash of color here and there updates Nana’s house. I try to coordinate the crushed colors in the carpet with colors that will go well on the wall. I can crush six crayons and draw on two walls in the time it takes Nana to cut up an apple for me.

Around 4 PM, Nana always seems to experience depression. She sits on her couch, not even trying to clean up after me. She mumbles to herself and shakes her head. I like it when she’s nice and sedate like this, it’s the best time for me to put Playdough in her hair or hide her glasses.

At 5 PM, my mother comes to get me. I will miss Nana, just when I’ve got her beaten to a standstill, I have to go and then start all over in the morning. On the other hand, my mother feels guilty that she has to work all day and, man, can I work that. Phase two of toddler domination begins....

The Evolution of the Beach Basket

It takes years of experience to know what you really need at the beach. Remembering back to my youth without scaring myself to death or naming any names, I recall how my beach baskets changed with time.

1960’s: big towels, Sun-In hair bleach, baby oil for tanning, transitor radio - tuned to 77WABC because the DJ, Cousin Brucie, would time your tan and say, “Okay, for you girls on the beach, it’s been fifteen minutes, time to turn over.” We basted ourselves in baby oil and turned on an imaginary spit on our towels to achieve the perfect tan. Sunblock did not exist. If you burned, you slathered on Noxema. Yoohoo in glass bottles with a bottle opener. Bologna sandwiches on Wonderbread. The bikini was just beginning to appear, but only sluts wore them. Cool sunglasses and floppy hat with Peter Maxx design. I love going to the beach. I love the peace, the beauty, I don’t mind the sand sticking to the baby oil on my body.

1970’s: big towels, Sun-In hair bleach and Love’s Baby Soft lotion instead of baby oil. Some expensive lotion from France arrived, called Ban de Soleil, and now there were vicious rumors circulating that we should not baste ourselves with oils, nor bask in the sun, something about skin cancer. Everyone wore a two piece, so now we had to tan our middles, skin cancer or no skin cancer, we had to be evenly tanned. Noxema, Fresca’s with the pull tabs on top so you can make pull tab necklaces on the beach. Hostess cupcakes (two in a pack), Devil Dogs and Slim Jim's. Cool sunglasses and brim hat with scarf. I love the beach. I never feel better than when I’m near the water.

1980’s: blanket from home that is on its last legs and beach towels that are brightly colored, but much thinner and with a shorter life than the beach towels of yesteryear. Suddenly there’s a man in my life and somehow, once we got married, he lost all his skills at being an independent adult. Now I have to pack beer and salami & cheese sandwiches. Worse than that, children have shown up claiming that I’m their mother and they have the papers on me to prove it. My two piece bikini has been retired and I’m back in a one piece, a Jansen with a formed cup bra. I have become my mother. I am dipping my small celtic children in 50 sunblock because they will burn if they are exposed to fireworks... The beach is too much work. I can’t track two kids on the beach. I tried just grabbing any little kid that ran close to me, figuring someone would grab one of mine and we could switch in the parking lot maybe, or maybe not - but everyone seems to want their own kids and no one wants any extras. I had cool glasses until I sat on them. My hair is a sun blown wreck. The beach is no longer fun. It’s where I get to do everything I have to do at home, but with sand.

1990’s We are no longer going to the beach unless we can drive up in a Winnebago and have it catered. My children are bratty monsters. Nothing pleases them. I am weighing the pros and cons of prison time against beating them into submission. Everyone has a cell phone with them on the beach, why? Aren’t they here to get away from everything and everyone? I hate listening to all the one-sided conversations. At least with two people in the flesh you can hear the whole argument and takes sides.

2000: Back to the beach. The children grew into people with brains and are considerate of others. I have no idea how this happened. I now spread an old comforter down and sit in a folding chair. I have a book in my beach basket, a book I can read without interruption. I have some kind of guilt free healthy drink and I am wearing sunblock, which sort of defeats to purpose of being in the sun, but I’m just choosing to live with the contradiction. I am in a one piece bathing suit that looks drapey on the outside but has an inner lattice work of struts and straps that rival the Eiffel Tower for uplifting engineering. I still refuse to buy a cell phone. Unless I’m on the list to receive a donated organ, I’m not granting the world access to me at the beach. I have genuine imitation Chanel sunglasses because at dusk, when the sun is directly in a passerby’s eyes, and if the passerby has had a few drinks, I might pass for Jackie O from the sunglasses up.

The Cat Days of July

The Dog Days of August aren’t even here and the thermometer is already getting too close to that dreaded third digit....the unthinkable concept of 100 degree heat with 98% humidity, so I have decided that all days over 95 degrees in July shall be known as the Cat Days of July. The Cat Days of July will not only be as bad as the Dog Days of August, but worse because there’ll be no cooling September to look forward to, no hint of promise of October weather to come. Just days of sweltering heat that cause the core body temperature to rise and the brain stem to heat up and fill the brain with thoughts that under any other circumstances would be rejected by your normal logical self, but in the Cat Days of July and the Dog Days of August, almost anything can make perfect sense.

“Honey, I was thinking, if we skip the new roof, we can get a boat this summer and get out in the bay breezes and not be locked in the house running the air conditioner all day. What do you think, Betty?”
“A new boat. You’ve been wanting a new boat. I know I’ve been saying no, but it’s too hot to remember why I said no. Are you sure it was just because I wanted a new roof since the ceiling plaster in the kitchen has more rings than a redwood tree?”
“Yeah, I think so. It’s too hot to remember all your objections, after a while your arguments against me just sort of blur together into one big homicidal rage.”
“I’m too hot to recall all the reasons I should kill or divorce you either. Tell me more about the boat, will it have a cabin? I want a cabin that sleeps two so we can anchor out at night and not get eaten up by mosquitoes. I don’t want one that sleeps four or the kids will try to come with us.”
“Cabin? We can have a cabin if we crack into the kid’s college funds. They don’t really need them. We worked our way through school, it would be good for their character if they had to work like we did.”
“Yes, it would, wouldn’t it, Joe? I’m sick of them hammering at me constantly to take them off Island because they’re bored every day want to do something like shop at the mall or go to a movie. Yeah, let them work through college and buy their own cars to get off Island. Why should we waste a ferry ticket on seeing Avatar for the third time? We like living on Island exactly because there’s no, ah, no...”
“Nothing to do, no nothing to create traffic, no entertainment, no big stores, no drive thru anything. It’s still like it always was. Except that we can have boat and escape all the things that aren’t here to do.”
“That make’s perfect sense, Joe. Let’s go to the bank now. I’ll keep the car running with the A/C on and drop you off at the door. Signal from the window when you’re ready for pickup and I’ll pull up to the step and get you.”
“We can get a boat, really?”
“Yes, but let’s hurry before I remember why I said no. I don’t want to say no about anything ever again, it’s too hot to fight.”
“I’m calling Jack now. He’ll give me a good price on his cruiser and we can be on the water, under a canopy by noon. I love you, Betty.”
“I don’t have the energy to pack lunch, we’ll grab what we need at the store.”
“Anything you say, honey.”
“Let’s go, Joe, it’s 9 AM and 82 degrees already, and there’s a sauna in my pants.”

Keeping Your Cool

How did we survive without air conditioning? We didn’t have air conditioning anywhere I can recall when I was a kid except at the movies and high end stores. Not even the library. None of the schools had air conditioning. I remember the teachers opening the tops of huge windows with a long rod that would tilt the big upper windows inward, then opening the bottom windows as high as they’d go. We might be allowed to have a fan in the room on the really bad days, other than that we just sweltered as we studied, we didn’t have the energy to organize a rebellion. It was too hot to do anything, even to think. Looking back now, as bad as I remember it for us kids, it had to be worse on the adults.

I believe there is a direct inverse ratio to a persons age and their ability to endure the heat. The younger you are, the more you can endure. The older you are, the closer you move your lazy-boy to the air conditioner. To be cool is to be calm. To be cool is to not lose your temper because someone is running the water in the kitchen just a few seconds longer than you do while performing the same task.
“How long are you going to run that water, Louise? How much does it take to boil corn?”
“I have to clean the pot first, Dad. We steamed clams in it yesterday and it has all those little clams bits stuck to the sides.”
”Well, hurry up! We don’t need to be running up the water bill, the electric is going to be bad enough this month. Speaking of which, did you get the mail today?”
“No. Mom picked it up when she went to the store.”
“Well tell her to bring it to me. Tell her I know the water and LIPA-suction bill came and tell her there’s no sense in hiding them from me.”
“Okay, Dad, just let me get this water on the stove. I have to go outside and shuck the corn. When I see Mom, I’ll tell her you want her.”
“I don’t want her, I just want the mail.”
‘You want a cold beer, Dad?”
“At ten in the morning?”
“It’s supposed to go to 97 degrees today. Mom bought you some Guinness Lite.”
“She knows I drink Bud and she bought me Guinness? Was she in a fender bender?”
“No, everything is fine. She just thought, on such a hot day, you’d like the good stuff.”
“Did she buy the beer before or after she picked up the mail? And look at me when you answer.”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Liar. Where’s your mother?”
“Geez, you can already feel the heat coming on. I’ll get you a brew. Mom got you some shrimp too, it’s on ice in a tupperware bowl, but I think it’s chilled enough to eat now. Why not live it up a little and have a shrimp brunch?”
“She bought shrimp too? How big is the water and electric bill, Louise?”
“Daddy, please don’t put me in the middle. I won’t be able to find Mom until you’ve had your second beer.”
“I won’t yell at you or your mother or your sisters and your ....your ....hairdryers, hair straighteners, hair curling irons, phone chargers, stereos, computers, television sets, video games boxes, Tivo’s, Schmebos, or any other completely unessential electronic that runs up the bill. I won’t even start on the length of time it seems to take one of you to shower or brush your teeth, or how many times a day I hear the washing machine go on.”
“Daddy, your face is bright red. Do you want a beer or a Xanex? I’m not getting Mom until we have you sedated, I mean, until you are in a more relaxed state. It’s just money, it’s not worth having a heart attack over.”
“What was that clunk? Oh geez, Louise! My air conditioner went out!”
”Oh Gawd! Mom! Sharon! Paula! Get in here NOW! Dad’s air conditioner just died! Don’t worry Dad, we’ll get you in Paula’s car, she has the coldest A/C and we’ll pack frozen peas around your neck. Paula will get you over to the library. Sharon and I will run off Island and get you a new A/C. You don’t worry about a thing.”
“My air conditioner.....I can’t breathe...”
“The new high end air conditioners have remote controls, Daddy, just think about that.”
“A remote for my A/C? You’d get that for your old Dad?”
“Yes, Dad. Just hold that happy thought. See yourself in your chair with a TV, DVD and a new remote for your A/C in just a few hours from now. Three remote controls, all for you.”
“Can I have my beer now? I can get one down on the way to the library.”
“Yes, Daddy, we’ll start your medication in the car.”

And that is why American’s say, “Whatever happens, don’t lose your cool.”

Shelter Island Barbecue Season

A Man For All Seasons

Shelter Island has four seasons; Christmas and/ or Holiday of your choice, Spring Planting; Barbecue; and Deer Hunting. The Fourth of July marks the beginning of barbecue season. I believe that barbecue season has been around the longest because there’s something about raw meat and fire that goes back to the first man and certainly the first inhabitants of Shelter Island.

Year 1762, an nice sunny summer’s day
“Running Deer wants us to come over for barbecue tonight. He says bring that fat possum you caught and he wants me to make corn pudding.”
“Why should I bring my possum? He never has any meat except shellfish and that’s only because they can’t run. I don’t know why they call him Running Deer, all he manages to do is run them off. He should’ve been named Spooking Deer or just Clam Digger.”
“Be nice, he’s your brother. You know he was never fast, Rips Off Antlers, the Chief just gave him the name Running Deer to make him feel better.”
“Yeah, I know, part of the No Brave Left Behind Program...”
“I’ll pack and carry the baby, can you carry the food? It’s midmorning, we’d better get started if we want to get before dusk.”
“And that’s another thing - why does he have to live all the way across the Island?”
“He likes his privacy, besides if he lives too close, he aggravates you when he borrows your stuff.”
“Yeah, like my best bow. Oh man, you know how long it took me to make that bow? It was a beauty, a work of art. I let him use it once and that son of a .....”
“Honey, please, I didn’t mean to get you started on the bow. Just get the possum and let’s go.”

Year 2010, a nice sunny summer’s day
“Bill, Joe and Susan want us to come over for barbecue. He wants you to stop and get franks, the kosher kind, and pork chops. I made German potato salad with chopped eggs and bacon.”
“I don’t like it with eggs. Can’t you just make regular potato salad?” And how come I always have to get the pork chops?”
“He got all the barbecue stuff. As far as the salad, everyone else likes it with eggs.”
“Okay, so can you make me one without eggs?”
“Can we stop at IGA on the way and buy it?”
“I don’t want the store potato salad, I want yours, it tastes better homemade.”
“Ah, c’mon Bill, that’ll take another hour to make!”
“You said you cooked all the time for your first husband. If you could cook extra for that moron, you can cook for me.”
“Yeah but I traded up when I married you. I got him from the No Bachelor Left Behind Program and he was the last one because he was such an OCD pain in the neck. And you’re not like that. You’re wonderful, you never make me go through unnecessary effort just to please you. You are always willing compromise and go with the flow. That’s what I love about you......are you buying all this so far?”
“Yes if we can have sex tonight.”
“All right, sex is on the menu as long as you stop at three beers which is your Cain limit.”
“My Cain limit?”
“Yes, every man has a drinking limit when he’s sure he Cain, but he just ain’t Abel.”

Fourth of July 2010

Oh beautiful for spacious skies...

How did we get conned into arriving at airports two hours early to volunteer for body searches and have all our possessions rifled through? Benjamin Franklin said, "They that can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety."

For amber waves of grain...

We found out what’s killing the bees; genetically engineered plants have pesticides in their DNA and it’s killing the bees when they eat the pollen. So, what’s it doing to us? Plus, I’m a little concerned that Albert Einstein said the planet can only survive four years without bees.

For purple mountains majesty...

Unless of course unless they have an profitable ore, then they're coming gown.

Above the fruited plains...

But who needs bees when we can clone fruit?

America, America, God shed his grace on thee...

And yet, we let one atheist, who doesn’t even have kids, get rid our prayer in schools. I recall having moments of silence in school to pray because of a national loss or local tragedy and a pastor was always present to help with a dedication or celebration. And I still think Christmas vacation was a lot more fun than Winter Break, so there...

And crown thy good with brotherhood...

Not even the government, regardless of which party is in charge, has yet wrangled this from us. I love how quickly Americans close ranks when facing a threat. 9/11 being the last example. New York City was crime free for 11 days after the tragedy. Nine million people, not a rape, not a murder, nothing...

From sea to shining sea...

In the case of Shelter Island, this is a fairly short distance. However, if the island is a microcosm of America, and I believe it is, there is hope yet. As much as we all complain locally and nationally about the government, if anyone challenges our patriotism, they’d better be prepared to have their heads knocked off! A Nazi colonel once told his troops that he didn’t understand how the American soldiers, who were the worst trained and undisciplined men that ever wore a uniform, could, when cornered, be the most deadly of fighters.

A congressional aide told me, one hand written letter counts as 1500 people’s opinions to a member of congress, an email counts as 500 opinions and most legislators won’t pay attention to an issue unless they get three letters or ten e-mails. I find that fascinating. Gives me hope and motivation to get involved. Abraham Lincoln said it best: “The American people will get as good a government as they are willing to work for and as bad a government as they are willing to stand for.”

Have a happy and healthy Fourth of July. Today the Island will all be thinking again of our G.I. Joe, recently called home from the field of battle. No soldier dies in vain if the ones he loves remain free.

Spaghetti-O’s, An American Icon in Food

“Campbell Soup recalls 15 Million Pounds of Spaghetti-O’s
by Mary Jalonick, AP Jun 17, 2010
WASHINGTON- Campbell Soup Co. is recalling 15 million pounds of Spaghetti-O’s with meatball after a cooker malfunctioned at one of the company’s plants in Texas and left the meat undercooked.”

Spaghetti-O’s - only the name is still Italian. Inside the can are small circles of different sizes of grossly overcooked pasta, boardering on mush, coated with a red sauce created with unpronouncable chemicals and the real juice of one half of one cherry tomato to give it color.

Everyone I know has eaten Spaghetti-o’s. As kids we loved them. Plus, it helped introduce our bodies to processed foods and preservatives. A toddler can live on NesQuick chocolate milk and Spaghetti-O’s. Bachelors still live on cans of Spaghetti-o’s. Recall 15 million cans because the meatballs might be slightly undercooked? Are they nuts? Toddler’s eat cookies off the floor, they’ll eat anyting off the floor. Bachelors just eat anything whether it’s off the floor or not. I knew a bachelor who pulled three rock hard Kentucky Fried biscuits out of his fridge. “You can’t eat those,” I said, “they’re stones by now.”
“You just have to let them soak in coffee a minute and they’re fine,’ he said, and proceeded to eat them.

I don’t think a slightly undercooked meatball - especially since there’s only one meatball in a can - is going to have any negative impact on anyone. Even if the lone meatball is undercooked, surely the preservatives will kill any bacteria along with the nutritional value.

Every home with kids has a few cans of Spaghetti-O’s in the cabinets right now. They are fast food, if not at home, they are perfect for the beach ever since they added the pull tab peel off top. Spaghetti-O’s are a staple in Shelter Island beach bags. They don’t need to be wrapped, you can drop a few cans in your beach bag with the Oreo’s and juice boxes for treats. There’s no social rules yet on what you can give kids for beach food. As long as you have SPF sunscreen and slather them every half hour you qualify as a good mother, no one pays attention to what you’re feeding your kids. There were times when I wanted to feed mine to the sharks, but there’s too many witnesses at the beach, plus the sharks are only in the deep channel and I knew my kids couldn’t swim out that far no matter how much I encouraged them.

I’m just waiting for the news to report some idiot who will try to take advantage of the situation.
“She was a normal nine year old, my Brittany. She loved Spaghetti-O’s, we didn’t know we had a can with a bad meatball. We think the meatball was made from a mad cow because overnight, our angel, became bratty, rebellious, sneaky, and talks to us in “textspeak”. She keeps saying, “OMG, WTF is wrong with you people?” to us. We’re suing Campbell’s for three million dollars. They took our sweet little girl from us. Now, they have to give us three million, or they have to take her till she’s 25. We just want what’s best for Brittany.”

To Stand and Witness

If you need a laugh today, I guess you’ll have to go to another place on the internet. Today’s column will be a vain attempt to bring comfort to the part of the heart no one can ever reach but its owner and sometimes God.

Last Friday, June 4th, the Island lost it’s first son in uniform since the Viet Nam War. 1st Lt. Joseph Theinert, age 24, in Afghanistan. He warned away and saved twenty other soldiers from the bomb that killed him. In that moment, in my mind, he went home, home to a place of no pain where he was met by loving relatives already there, and entered into the peace of God. Today, Friday June 11th, his body will be laid to rest in Our Lady of the Isle Catholic Cemetery.

His body came home to the Island on Wednesday, June 9, to a hero’s return with all the dignity and honor the Island could offer. The rain was strangely appropriate because everybody else was crying, why not the sky too?

It’s odd, but once you’ve lived here, whether for a single summer or your whole life, you are always affected by whatever affects the Island. Doesn’t matter how far you move, or how long you go, part of you remains here. The irony is when you live here, you can’t wait for a chance to get off-island, and if you’re off-island too long, you can’t wait to get home again. I never met Joe, but I’ll bet he’d agree with me on that point.

He came from good people. I only knew his mom, Chrys Kestler. She’s a beautiful, hardworking and upbeat gal, always busy, I’d wave to her all the time in her van with the “Mamasita” license plate. With her as a mother, Joe was raised as right as any kid could be. I can’t imagine where she and Joe’s father, James, can find air to breathe since this happened.

It’s hard to comfort grieving parents. There’s a lot you’d like to say, but nothing would be adequate, and yet, saying nothing isn’t right either. I think sending a card is good because then they can open it when they can bear to. And if they never open the card, it doesn’t matter, because they can see your name on the return address and know you thought of them that day.

Sometimes, all we can do is stand and be counted. The people who stood by the dock that brought him home on the ferry. The people who stood along the road and faced the procession as it passed. The people who stood at the funeral, the wake, and the cemetery service. The people who embraced the parents, the people who sensed they needed to be left alone for a moment. The Islanders who are off island now, were counted as they called or wrote. Sometimes all we can do is say, I am here and I witness your pain. If there is any healing power in knowing that other people care, that is all we can offer the Theinert-Kestler family today.

Shells Angels ; Hell's Angels revised and edited

Picture above is from www.trikezilla.com/

“Hells Angels, Please Explain Lifestyle
Reuters; Thu Jun 3, 12:36 pm ET
SYDNEY (Reuters) Michael Perry Reporter: Australia's Hells Angels bikers will be forced to explain how they pay for their extravagant lifestyles with sports cars and high-end bikes after losing a court case brought by the Australian Crime Commission.....Sports cars, Harley-Davidson motorcycles, drugs, firearms, computers and financial documents relating to biker activities were seized in recent police raids, said the newspaper.... the 12 Hells Angels bosses were served with summons to appear before the commission, to answer questions on tax fraud and their finances...”

I guess it was bound to come out sometime. Hell’s Angels gangs are worldwide now and have even reached Shelter Island, but in a milder, greener form; Shell’s Angels.

You’ve seen them, we all have. They ride their bikes everywhere, sometimes three or four abreast across the road, defying any car to pass them. And flipping the bird at them what drives too close, these wild rebels of the Island...They bike all over the Island. Speeding down long hills with their arms open wide like they’ll get lift off at any moment.

And the Shell Angels chicks, with their “Born to Be Mild” tramp stamp tatoo’s....peddling along with children strapped into plastic chairs on their fenders. Everyone knows that baby seats are supposed to be rear-facing, but these social miscreants flagrantly defy the law.

To make matters worse, they’re all in great shape and the boys wear lycra shorts that leave nothing to the imagination, (thank God), which is that disgusting.

And unlike their Hell’s Angels cousins, who drive crippled members in side cars and let fat members drive three wheelers, the Shell’s Angels don’t have sidecars for adults, just drag carts that they load with children or groceries. And you can’t drive an adult three wheeler and be in their club. I know, because during my mid-life crisis, I tried.

“I want a shiny red adult three wheeler with an ice cream bell and shiny red streamers on the handles.”
“That we got, but you’ll need some special additional modifications, Ms. Flynn. We got a deal on some second hand tires from the space shuttle that we think can take the pressure, we got a John Deere tractor seat on order and some shocks from Peterbilt.”
“I’m not going to stand out too much with all this special equipment am I?”
“No Ms. Flynn, no one will notice the space shuttle tires or any thing like that, but they will notice the large orange triangle on the back of your bike over the sign that says WIDE LOAD.”
“I’m not really an orange person, can we get the triangle in a soft green or aqua, something a little more summery?”
“Nope, has to be legal.”
“Well how am I going to express my rebel side? I wanna be a Shell’s Angel.”
“I dunno know. How about you go topless?”
“That’s a great thought, but I’d be too worried about catching a boob in the chain or the spokes.”
“Yeah, the Fire Department probably wouldn’t appreciate trying to untangle you from that. You know, I know a guy who knows a guy, I think I could hook you up with some hubcaps with double C’s”
“Chanel hubcaps? Oh, that would make those skinny biker chicks jealous.... I love it. I can just hear them talking about me now.... Sally Flynn, rebel without a cause....”
“No, it would be, Sally Flynn, rebel without a clue.”
“Chanel hubcaps, sparkling red streamers, baseball cards in the spokes, peeing in the woods...living on the edge, that’s me...”

No Kidding!

I got into a conversation recently with a young woman who was babysitting about whether or not she was ready to have a child. She was babysitting an adorable three year old and had a very idealized view of motherhood, so I enlightened her. Here are somethings to consider for any young gal who’s wondering whether or not she’s ready to enter the world of martyrdom, I mean motherhood.

For the first month, babies sleep all day and are awake all night. You can’t sleep all day, but test yourself to see how much sleep you can do without each night. If you can run all day on two or three hours sleep, that’s a good beginning.
Now, add colic for the next three months. You can still have three hours of sleep at night, but it has to be broken into half hour segments. And you have to be able to sleep in any chair that has arms to keep you from falling off. If you can still spell your name and repeat your address by memory after a month of colic, you’re doing very well indeed.
For the first six months the baby stays wherever you put him. Can you finish whatever you need to do in the next two years before the baby hits six months and starts to get the concept of crawling? Do you need to paint any rooms? Do you need to finish any degrees? Do you want to read a book? Whatever it is, you have until the baby is crawling to get it done, after that, it’s a five year wait till they start school before you’ll have any real time to accomplish anything.
Around eight months, the baby has gone mobile. Can you keep track of a constantly moving object without tying it to the leg of a chair with a bungee cord? Add babyfood and fling it around your dining room a bit, can you stand the look of dripping peaches on the wall for a few minutes until the flinger has flung his last? Or are you compelled to jump up and clean immediately? If you can’t wait, you may have trouble with motherhood.
Around one year, the baby begins to walk and undoes anything you do right behind you. To test your tolerance for a one year old, invite a friend over, get a big box of Cherrios and raisins. Both of you grind Cherrios and raisins into your carpet. Now, you get the vacuum and start vacuuming. Have your friend go behind you and grind fresh Cherrios and raisins into the area you just cleaned while holding onto your leg and crying. Can you stand it or do you have the urge to beat your friend with the conveiniently attached retractable vacuum hose? If you can stand it, then something is wrong with you. If you have the urge to beat with the hose, but are able to restrain yourself, you might make it as a mother.
Go visit a mother with an 18 month old toddler. If you walk into a clean house, she’s hiding something - like the kid in a closet somewhere.... But, if you walk in and nearly break your neck trying not to trip on any toys as you navigate to the couch, you’re in the right place (I always offered to rake a path for guests, but that’s just me). If all the visible surfaces are cluttered and /or sticky, welcome to a toddler’s home. Look at the exhausted mother in clean, but stained clothes. Look at the circles under her eyes and her horrible hair. Listen to her struggle to converse with you over a kiddie show blaring on the TV in the background. Look at whatever is playing on the TV, can you watch that all day without screaming? Watch how she talks to you, but her eyes never leave the child. When you go to leave, watch how she tackles the toddler before you open that door and give him a chance to make a break for it - can you move that fast?
If you’ve made it this far, I’d say you stand a chance to make it as a mother. But stop your exposure to toddlers at 18 months and skip straight to the 3 year olds. Do not go near a 2 year old, or you’ll pay any guy at the docks with a fillet knife and fishing line to ties your tubes.